


Modificare

by heavythecrown (treebarkings)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, M/M, im here for the fashion and the looks only, like there is very little research done into history here, masquerade au, super fake historical fantasy, trans woman Newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-14 01:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21007742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treebarkings/pseuds/heavythecrown
Summary: Three balls. Three weeks that will change everything.Crowley, bored advisor to the King of France, is sent to Italy for a wedding. Anathema is to be wed, but the Italian princess has her own opinions on her destiny. Aziraphale just wants to survive his stifling family and maybe retire to the countryside. For three weeks, all of Europe is asked to celebrate the princess’ upcoming nuptials. Citizens are invited to don a mask, lose their identity, and indulge themselves before witnessing the holy commitment. Along the way, there will be court intrigue, alcohol, and just a few miracles.





	1. Chapter 1 - Virtutem forma decorat

**Author's Note:**

> A really self indulgent AU done! I had a lot of fun with this one, and I hope you'll all enjoy. 
> 
> Thanks to the runners of the Mini Bang event, everyone on the GO server for the support, my beta readers, and the BEST co-creator Kharpy for the lovely art! 
> 
> Make sure to check out Kharpy on her social media:  
[twitter!](https://twitter.com/kharpys)  
[tumblr!](https://kharpy.tumblr.com/)

This champagne is atrocious, Aziraphale thought. He sighed to himself as he truly couldn’t voice his thoughts to anyone at the gathering here. An innocent comment on the cheese selection alone earned him more than a few glares from the other attendees. The rest of the night had been spent trying to make amends. A few compliments here and there. Trying not to get caught underfoot in the dancers’ paths.

After several hours of it, he’d just given it up for a bad job and retreated upstairs where he could drink the swill in peace. It didn’t taste any better after a third glass and nor a fourth, and Aziraphale just pushed at his sleeves, irritably fussing with them as he surveyed the floor below.

On a normal night, the flow of dancers might have proven mesmerizing or elegant but there were a rather large number of drinks already laid out that evening and instead it looked more akin to a frenzied hive. Dancers essentially crawled over each other, shouting for libations this way and that.

A shriek pierced the air. Followed closely by a loud burst of giggles and shouts from so many drunkards below. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sipped at his drink; he’d stopped flinching after the dessert spirits were placed and then everyone seemed to be yelling.

"I hear that the Lady Marbury was the Duchess of Hanover's own estranged daughter."

A dark figure, cut in black cloth and leaned against the marble balcony, watched a shrieking woman get chased by an equally shrieking man. Aziraphale eyes dashed towards where the figure was looking, and indeed that was the Lady Marbury associating with some rather unsavory types. But to be the Duchess’s own daughter… Aziraphale couldn't help the rise of his brow.

He shook his head. No, no, no. Best to stop those thoughts in their tracks. For want of anything better to do, he took another sip of champagne before he replied, "I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about. I don't listen to idle talk." He punctuated his sentence with a more thorough once over of the man standing beside him.

A brilliant black silk mask adorned his features, contrasting with his bright skin. The same silk was to be found along his coat and stockings, the fabric rippling in the low lighting on the balcony. His eyes had traveled all the way down and back up the man's body, noting that his leather riding boots were polished within an inch of his life, when Aziraphale caught sight of the man's casually raised brow. He cleared his throat with as much dignity as he could manage.

"Sure you don't, angel. But it's not gossip, it's a fact," the cad said with a smirk. His accent placed him as a foreign guest, but from where Aziraphale couldn’t tell.

"Well, I don't care for your- your facts then, Signore…?"

"Crowley."

"Signore Crowley!" Aziraphale finished, a little too loud for the silent space they occupied. His words rang out throughout the empty balcony and over both their ears, soon lost to the noise below. Aziraphale flushed at his outburst, and he put his glass to his lips to silence himself. Crowley mirrored him but still Aziraphale could still see him smiling out of the corner of his eye.

A thought hit him. "Excuse me, did you just call me an angel?"

Crowley’s smile grew just a fraction, and he turned away from the party to meet Aziraphale's eyes behind his own mask. He nodded lazily at Aziraphale's person, "Wings and a halo, that's an angel if I ever saw one. Missing your harp are you?"

"Yes, I am an angel. And-" Aziraphale faltered momentarily, taking in Crowley's attire once again, "And just what exactly are you supposed to be?" Aziraphale inclined his head toward Crowley's person this time, and Crowley shrugged.

"First serpent in Eden, I suppose. Didn't know it was divinity themed the first night, so here we are." Crowley gestured lazily to his silk garments before he slightly turned. The candlelight caught on the silk, and _oh my,_ Aziraphale breathed. The fabric wasn't just a plain black silk, but silk with an overlaid pattern on it. Iridescent scales rippled rippled along the fabric of his coat, his stockings, and even his shoes were coated in scales... The mask even had little sharp thorns at the edges, something that Aziraphale had once seen crowning the top of some of the more exotic snakes in his books. It was a wholly striking outfit, but one done so subtly that Aziraphale realized he had intruded quite close into the stranger's space to see.

Catching his breath, Aziraphale breathed, with just a trace of his former haughtiness, "Beautiful craftsmanship. Even if you are lacking an apple."

Crowley laughed lowly, and with a flick of his wrist produced the ruby red fruit, "Oh aren't I?" And Aziraphale smiled, really smiled. At the showmanship and the attention to detail and to the general suavity of the man before him.

_What nerve_. Aziraphale opened his mouth, a multitude of replies on his tongue, but decided on the simplest course of action. "Aziraphale then, Signore Crowley." He stuck out his hand before adding primly, "Pleased to make your acquaintenance."

Crowley took Aziraphale's gloved hand in his own, but swiftly ducked low over it and kissed the knuckles of his hand. "And yours, Monsieur Aziraphale."

Ah, that explained the accent then. A Frenchman.

Crowley withdrew his hand slowly, but not before Aziraphale felt the slide of Crowley's glove against his hand. Their hands lingered together before Crowley finally let go.

Aziraphale felt himself flushing again, for the second time this evening, and he looked away quickly. The sudden gulping feeling he felt in his throat could have been the champagne bubbles for all he knew.

"And Sign- Monsieur Crowley, what brings you to Italy?" Aziraphale felt his own clumsy tongue butcher the French honorific but pressed on. Crowley cocked his head to the side and sighed, with a bit too much practice it seemed, and said, "A wedding, of course."

Aziraphale felt the undignified need to snort at his glib response. A wedding indeed, he thought as he watched the fountains of liquor flow, the rows and rows of food, the glint off of the enormous, polished chandelier... It all looked a little bit brighter to him than before but it was easily the country’s most extravagant celebration to date. He murmured, "Right, weddings seem to be the new fashion. At least in Italy at any rate."

Crowley made a noise of agreement before he downed the rest of his champagne and plucked Aziraphale's glass right out of his hand. "Right, all your royals and dukes and baronesses getting hitched like there's no tomorrow. It's a shame to see so many swearing before a bible and a church and all that. Now come along with me."

Aziraphale was left sputtering but quickly turned to follow Crowley, "Where are you going?"

"Ah, you mean where are we going, my dear Aziraphale." Crowley grinned as he made his way around the corner of the balcony, heading for the grand, but deserted staircase.

"You didn't answer the bloody question!" Aziraphale exclaimed as he rushed, more than a little woozy on his feet, to catch up.

With striking accuracy, Crowley deposited their two glasses on a flat post of the handrail and whirled to take Aziraphale's hand yet again. Aziraphale was brought up short, pressed much closer to Crowley as his momentum carried him forward, and he sharply inhaled under his breath.

Crowley stared at him with molten gold eyes behind his mask before dropping another kiss to Aziraphale's knuckle.

"Aziraphale," he said, and Aziraphale noticed he had dropped the formal greeting out of his name with just a little thrill, "We are going dancing, for all the good it will do for you."

Aziraphale was left blinking at Crowley's request, more of a statement really, and he saw a number of pairs beginning to ascend the staircase. They stood halfway down in the middle of the stairway, and Aziraphale thought, Well, It would be quite rude to dawdle at this moment, in the way of foot traffic…

Crowley didn't budge an inch, and before he knew it, Aziraphale had retracted his hand and said, "Well I am quite fond of this dance, and we're already here. So. Lead the way." Aziraphale nodded sharply ahead and to the dance floor where a rousing step piece had begun. (A rousing, if a bit scandalous dance).

Crowley grinned with all his teeth and descended the rest of the staircase with ease. Aziraphale brought up the rear behind him, with as much dignity as he could manage, but his shoes were quite cumbersome and he stumbled at the last step.

Crowley's arm was there to steady him though as Aziraphale pitched forward. His jacket was firmly held by Crowley’s grip, and Aziraphale had grasped at his hand in fright. His head whipped towards Crowley to watch his reaction, but Crowley only teased, "And we haven't even started the dance yet, angel.”

Aziraphale fumingly dropped his arm as Crowley laughed and led them into the dance floor. He felt a bit humiliated at his apparent eagerness as he was inserted into one of the orderly rows of pairs. For the first time he spared a thought to consider what in the world he really was doing.

A dance? With a masked stranger? And a handsome one no less… But Aziraphale rationalized to himself: everyone was dancing here. Tonight. It was the perfect time to dance, at the princesses' first wedding ball and _everyone was wearing a bloody mask, you chit_. Crowley wasn’t the only masked figure in black tonight, but he was the only one that Aziraphale could pick out in the crowd. He cut a lean figure leagues differently than anyone else in the whole mansion, Aziraphale thought, promptly smothered down, and tried not to think about again.

But it was obvious, in addition to his lean figure, Crowley was a handsome man. Sharp angles, high cheekbones, and gorgeous flashing eyes. Aziraphale had been at the party long enough to see what had gone down in some of the more densely shadowed corners of the event. A handsome man dancing, and _only _dancing, was practically sacrosanct behavior compared to the other pairs, trios, and Lord knows what other couplings.

Aziraphale wished he had another drink to steady himself. But the waiters were steering well clear of the dance floor, and Crowley was waiting for him ever so patiently.

Steeling himself, and tragically without the aid of alcohol, Aziraphale raised his slightly wobbly self to look at Crowley opposite him.

The serpentine man in front of him just smiled an unknowable smile before the music started. It was a lively, thrumming beat, and Aziraphale felt it in his entire body. The music rang through him, it was quite a lovely orchestra, and then they were off. He’d spent months practicing this dance, just this dance, because he felt the son of a highly respected noble family had to have at least one under his belt. The practice paid off as Aziraphale's two left feet fell away, and he focused on the dance.

Crowley, for his part, looked to be doing much the same only that he was focused on Aziraphale instead. They came together, palms barely touching palms before they were stepping back into line again. Round and round they went, feeling the hint of warm skin beneath their own gloves, right at the edge of their own hands, before they were dancing away from each other again. Aziraphale circled Crowely, with lively steps to keep in pace, and Aziraphale was twirling.

Crowley spun him round in an expert fashion, all flourishes and grandeur whereas the other pairings lacked their particular flair, and he was smiling. Not the taunting smiles of earlier or the sharp smirks at Aziraphale’s words, but a genuine smile graced Crowley’s face. One that Aziraphale eagerly reflected back at him. An unconscious weight had lifted off his shoulders as Crowley beamed at him. They were moving fast now, in time with the beating strings of the instruments, and the sonorous voice of some crooner off in the wings. Aziraphale stepped into the space Crowley had once occupied, and Crowley did the same. They filled in and filed each others' edges perfectly, and each one thought to himself, I have never had a better dance partner before.

Seeing the sweat on Crowley's brow, the heavy breaths he took underneath that damningly good costume, something in Aziraphale clicked. Maybe it was the presence of Crowley's body heat radiating toward him or something else, but Aziraphale felt minutely aware of all of the air between them.

The music crescendoed, leaving a trail of heaving chests and heavy, wet breaths in its wake, and Aziraphale just let go. He fully lost himself in the music, unaware that there was some small part of him still being held back until then, and he committed to the song.

The music peaked and peaked and soared to the very vaults of the ceiling, and Aziraphale and Crowley danced as hard as they may, together.

Any other partner would have been insufficient for their exact speed and rhythm, the pairing just instinctively knew on some other level no one else could match them. Their breaths were heavy, heads bowed toward each other, hands still just barely touching, but the hot air between their mouths and bodies made up for it. The music slowly began coming down, lilting melodies and softer notes from the singer still somewhere in the eaves, and the lines returned to their original form, if a bit haphazardly.

The feeling in the air wasn't just exclusive to Azirapahle and Crowley. Neither was totally aware of it, but the whole room was lit like with static electricity, the burning potential just crackling everywhere. From another part of the room, on a raised dais where the buffet was laid, a tall, broad chested man in silver had silently lain down his food. In a similar situation, a bit of roast pheasant had stopped being chewed, the woman with sharp, sharp teeth and a costume of gills and scales, was transfixed by the couple in the middle of the dance floor.

Aziraphale and Crowley only had eyes for each other. They were still pressed close, at least as close as this particular dance had allowed, and both of them were panting. Crowley, open mouthed like he could taste the air around him, couldn’t form a sound. Aziraphale, fully conscious that he had lost at least a feather or two from his wings in the vigorous dancing, breathed heavily through his nose. Their eyes had been fixed on each other the whole evening until now when Crowley broke eye contact momentarily.

Almost as if he were shy, Aziraphale thought. But when Crowley's eyes met his again, both of them sharing the same air, the same breath, Aziraphale took his hand.

He guided them through the crowd, Crowley wide eyed behind his mask as Aziraphale weaved his way through the revelry. Through the crowd, the various entertainers and sycophants, and even through the truly delightful hors d'oeuvres that adorned silver platters.

If anyone had noticed Aziraphale battering his way through the guests, Crowley in tow, it was lost to both of them as Aziraphale pulled him into a particularly dark hallway, and they crashed together under an open archway.

They met each other in an open mouthed, sloppy kiss. They tasted each other as they had wanted to all night, leaning into the kiss with everything they had. Aziraphale gasped into the kiss, falling open as Crowley pushed forward to meet him, their masks bumping against each other.

He threatened to buck them into the nearest door, but Aziraphale managed to wrangle it open, lips still on Crowley's as they stumbled through the room.

Aziraphale ripped the silken tie from Crolwey's hair none too easily, and he felt more than saw the russet locks fall around them. The door slammed shut, booming in the relative quiet compared to the ballroom, and neither of them heard it. Aziraphale was too busy running his hands through the utterly sinful silken locks of Crowley, and they crashed into some furniture or other.

Aziraphale felt not the weight of the heavy wooden couch they bumped into, but only the strong, solid feel of Crowley before him. The motions of Crowley's lips on his, the hands he felt grasping at his hip and hair, Aziraphale felt lost.

His legs were weak as they found the couch and sat down hard, and he indulged himself in the decadent scent of Crowley pressed up close to him. Crowley's long hair bracketed their faces and hid them from the world, and Aziraphale's hands found their natural path to his waist and clutched them close together.

"Aziraphale," Crowley gasped against him. His knees had descended down to either side of Aziraphale’s thighs and their groins pressed together unevenly. Aziraphale set his hands firmly against Crowley's hips, letting a bit of his own strength and mettle show, and pulled.

Crowley's mouth slipped from his and descended towards the side of his face, gasping out an expletive in the shell of his ear, utterly ripped from his throat. Aziraphale sighed in pleasure. Crowley’s harsh breathing in his ear was driving him wild, and Aziraphale fisted a hand in his hair to keep Crowley that way. They were moving in tandem together, a new dance that they both found they were quite excellent at.

Crowley, sly as ever though, recovered and found his way to the pulse point at Aziraphale's jaw and sucked. Aziraphale drove harder against Crowley, frotting in their costumes. He teased every point within reach, sucking and kissing against Aziraphale’s ear and neck, and Aziraphale was torn between just this and breaking it for something more.

It was decided for him though when Crowley nipped hard at his neck, and Aziraphale couldn’t stifle his moan. He put two hands squarely on Crowley's shoulders and pushed him back and off of him. Crowley sat back on Aziraphale’s lap hard, a look of surprise behind his mask.

But Aziraphale reached out soon enough to bodily turn Crowley against the couch. He tangled a hand in Crowley’s hair, helping support his head as he pulled Crowley down to the cushions. It was also as a lovely excuse to feel those tempting red locks in his own fingers again, and Crowley laughed in delight and purred, “Ooh, can’t keep your hands away from me then.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist a pleased smile and roll of his shoulders as he pinned Crowley to the couch. Crowley only had a moment to bite out, “You’re a strong for an angel,” before he was moaning as his hair was thoroughly grabbed and his legs manhandled to lie around Aziraphale’s own hips.

Crowley responded so eagerly that he snapped at Aziraphale’s mouth again for more kisses and more attention. Aziraphale helplessly complied, and he ground against the shimmering scaled legs of Crowley's suit and thrust. Crowley keened and let out a low curse, hands winding their way into Aziraphale's own hair and holding on for dear life.

Aziraphale gripped one of Crowley's legs where it lay around his own hip and urged him on harder. They were rocking together, pressed so closely, on furniture in a semi-public space, and neither could care in the world.

Both were too inebriated to stop, to stop seeking that endless fraction and pleasure rocking through their trousers, and it wasn't long before they both started reaching their breaking point. The sharp "Ah- Ah’s” breathed into Aziraphale's ear were like liquid fire to Aziraphale's cock, and he pressed even harder against him mindless of the way their trousers restrained and pulled at them.

It was too good to even consider stopping, and they both rutted against each other in a fever till one of them spilled. It didn't matter who was first or second, because within seconds they were both still riding out their pleasure on each other, gasping and heavily panting into the others' ear.

Aziraphale let his hands slowly unclench from where they’d grabbed at Crowley’s clothes. Crowley seemed contented to lie there for an eternity though, eyes blown wide and lazily taking in how Aziraphale looked, red-faced and sweaty atop of him. “It’s a shame we’ve got these masks on, I was so looking forward to seeing you disrobed tonight, angel,” Crowley said lazily. He licked his lips, oh so purposefully Aziraphale assumed, and he sighed as he let himself relax into the couch.

Aziraphale, still glowing on the liquid confidence he’d imbibed all night, huffed softly and said, “If you’re complaining about what we did, I can always leave…” and Crowley almost fell for the bait. Aziraphale saw him start at it before he recognized the teasing smile on his face.

“Ah, angels. Trickery of the highest order I’ve always said,” Crowley said. Too endearingly as he rolled his eyes at Aziraphale.

“I’m sure you do, my dear.” And Aziraphale did believe it to be true, he was sure of Crowley’s character even after just some odd hours together. It happened when you fell into bed, or rather a couch, with someone yes, but Crowley had an upfront nature about him that indicated he thought it too much effort to lie about something as silly as this.

Aziraphale slowly sat up to fuss at his clothes, pulling them this way and that in inspection and making sure his mask was still settled firmly on his face. Crowley, however, examined his clothes only to say, “Bah, this is the last time I wear this much silk to a party. An utterly blasted fabric.” The silk shone with evidence of their frottage though it was still quite pretty.

Aziraphale laughed, “But it felt delightful against me, there is that.”

Crowley looked shy of all things. He wiggled back into the cushions, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes though a small smile graced his face. He sighed, “God, I could use a pipe right now.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure we could arrange at least one of those things,” Aziraphale said calmly as he ignored the cooling spot in his own trousers. He summoned up his own pipe and matches, taking a wonderfully deep drag of tobacco and holding it in his lungs expertly.

Crowley lit up Aziraphale expertly breathed the smoke out through his nostrils and handed the pipe to him. His more genuine smile was back on his face as he closed his eyes to inhale a deep breath of tobacco.

They took turns passing the pipe back and forth, well supplied with Aziraphale’s silver snuff box. Anything two semi-drunken strangers would do at this point in the night.

Art by Kharpy ([twitter!](https://twitter.com/kharpys) and [tumblr!](https://kharpy.tumblr.com/)) 


	2. Chapter 1.5 - Interlude

Across the castle, still wrapped up in the ball, Anathema danced her last dance. Her partner stepped on her toes and pulled her dress in the wrong ways, and for all the world appeared to have just learned the steps of the dance tonight, she danced so poorly. But if putting up with terrible dancing was what Anathema would have to pay, she’d gladly do it. Newt was refreshingly _honest_. The most forthcoming and transparent person she’d spoken with tonight, and Anathema clung to her like an island in the rough seas. 

They’d almost literally crashed into each other as a figure in white and a figure in black barreled down the floor and thrust Newt into Anathema’s path. But since coming together, they’d danced with no one else and talked for hours about anything and everything. Nothing was off limits except… 

“You really won’t tell me what you’re doing here?” Anathema pressed. Newt looked down at their feet before clumsily turning Anathema in a circle. She only smiled and said, “Only if you tell me what you’re doing here, lady witch.” 

Anathema rolled her eyes but shook her head. No one could know she was the bride of this series of infuriating balls unless she wanted to have even these last bits of freedom before her wedding stripped away from her. She resisted the urge to pull her mask on just a bit tighter.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. I’m just a witch intent on wayfinding and exploration. As of course, you are a dangerous witchfinder,” she teased. Newt flushed faintly and led them into another wonky twirl. Even though Newt was likely a false name, just as she said hers was Device, the undercurrent of lies sat heavily on their conversation. Anathema sighed at that, but she brushed them off. 

She shouldn’t focus on that when Newt was holding her so close, and their heights matched each other perfectly. Newt was just the right height for Anathema to pitch closer and rest her head on her shoulder. Quite forward of herself indeed, but really. A witch was not under the same moral obligations as a princess to be wed for a political alliance. A witch had no alliance other than to herself. And maybe to those she personally chose. 

Newt was direct and kind. She didn’t mince words or swoon or sigh; awkward yes, but not to a fault. Just refreshingly human. And in Anathema’s world, simple and kind people were in short supply. 

Anathema pulled back suddenly and said, “Newt, are you coming to the next ball? Say you are?” 

“I… I hadn’t been planning on it, I confess,” she said. Anathema looked away, a witty retort already on her lips. “But now seeing as I’ve enjoyed the first one so much, I find myself most eager to return, Miss Device.” Newt subtly squeezed her hand, a smile curving her painted lips. 

Anathema quickly turned back towards Newt, a clear smile breaking out over her face in excitement. Anathema raised her arms to drape over Newt’s shoulders, and Newt pulled her closer by the waist to lay their foreheads against each other, dancing without any care. They could be two unimportant people, in the grand scheme of things, together. A witch: found, and a witchfinder: bewitched. 


	3. Chapter 2 - Et lux in tenebris lucet

_"Is there anything you need, Ambassador?"_ Crowley cut in smoothly, speaking his native French. 

_"This Italian imbecile is going on about trade delegations and French tariffs on Italian goods, it's quite above his station.” _Ambassador Henri looked distinctly put out, glaring at Aziraphale who stood nervously to the side. 

_"Ambassador, I do suggest you take your inferior mustache and butt out of this conversation before I let His Majesty know exactly how much of the foreign affairs budget you spent in Sicily's red light district."_

Crowley sent Ambassador Henri packing, steam all but blowing out of his ears as his tomato red face fumed. He sidled up to Aziraphale with a skewer of decadent fruit, pineapple, and took a bite. Aziraphale's eyes tracked his lips, and it pleased Crowley immensely. 

_"Care for some, angel?" _he purred in French again, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

He tried to reply, “_No, no, I don’t care for some,” _but couldn’t remember enough of it to get halfway through the sentence. Aziraphale flushed at his lack of practice with the language, but he was clearly trying not to smile. "Uh no, thank you, Crowley. And good lord, what are you dressed as?" 

"I'm a ship captain of course. A dashing sailor, adventurer, and all around one hell of a plunderer..." he trailed off. Indeed, his costume did look the part for the second balls’ theme of water. The costume was more than just frip; Crowley had an honest to god blade with him. Sheathed, thank God, but his costume still looked a touch more than decorative. There were wear and tear signs in the joints, a belt to hold a manner of pouches, and his normally polished boots looked a bit worn at the edges.

Well this was just obscene, Aziraphale thought. "Am I to believe you actually borrowed a real captain’s attire for this event? Where in the world would you get that from?"

"If borrowed is another word for, lived as one, than yes. Worked and commanded in_ the Roi Soleil's Marine Nationale. _Quite the story too, that one,” Crowley said with a wink. Aziraphale’s shoulders shuddered minutely, and Crowley relished what his French did to Aziraphale. His words licked up his spine and clearly got under Aziraphale’s collar and made him flush quite well. 

"I like your pearl costume though. Very bold, angel."

Aziraphale preened. With a bit of a haughtier air, he twirled his ivory white handkerchief this way and that, showing off its craftmanship and elegance. His shimmering grey robe and pants were encrusted with pearls by the stringfull. A set of pearls dangled from his ears too. "Thank you. Most people didn't know I was a bloody pearl let alone an oyster."

"You're a mind above the rest, Aziraphale. Care for a walk away from stuffy French nobodies?" He gestured in the way of Henri who was spouting fury in their direction to anyone who'd listen, and Aziraphale put a hand to his chest. "Oh, my, better let's." 

They walked off further into the garden away from the mingling crowds and the sea. The lawn was expertly manicured, and there were large bouquets of flowers and bushes dotted along every few feet. The flowers seemed to be alright so close next to the sea air, but Aziraphale didn’t have a mind for greenery. It all seemed to be imported in for the wedding anyway; the Italian crown sparing no expense for their daughter’s wedding. 

Aziraphale thought the first ball had been quite the sensation, but this second one was quickly outdoing its predecessor. He’d even heard tell of some sort of fireworks show? To apparently light up the skies? It was all so much to take in, and even after some dozen years here in Italy’s court, he’d feel like he’d never get used to the newest trends and fashions these days. But Crowley was casually walking alongside him, ignoring the wild entertainers and fools like he’d seen it all before. He’d been paying more attention to the garden’s flora if anything. 

"How are you finding Rome then? Hope everything's been well for you in the castle," Aziraphale broke the silence. They’d ended up round the garden’s stone walls, crawling in greenery. 

"It's fine, but lacking any sorts of interesting company," Crowley shrugged. 

Interesting company… Aziraphale did a mental catalogue of who he’d seen in the last few hours alone: flame eaters, various dancers and fools, and the exotic animals prowling in their cages. Nevermind the literal hundreds of important merchants and nobles gathered here well. "Right…” he said, “It can all get a little... much sometimes, I suppose. Depends on how you define interesting too, of course."

Crowley snorted, "It's been the same as it always has been, angel. Only difference is the new King of France, long live, et cetera, et cetera. but we've seen it all before, haven't we?"

It was more of a general statement, but Aziraphale couldn't stop the flutter in his stomach as he'd noted Crowley’s _we_. 

"Well, that other fellow in Britain seems to be making a great deal of fuss but yes, I suppose you're right. The normal course as it were."

“I mean to say, nothing we haven’t been expecting. Have heirs, marry the heirs, the heirs have kids. Rinse and repeat,” Crowley said while inspecting the roots of a bush. He’d become quite taken with one of its structures, but he stood in a sinuous movement, unfolding his long legs and popping right back to Aziraphale’s side. 

They walked on in companionable silence. Both simply taking it in to realize that yes, in their 40 or so odd years, as Aziraphale figured Crowley was alike in age to him, they really had been through it all. Patterns were repeating, funerals, births, and weddings alike all just winding on. 

Or maybe it was just never interesting to them anymore, if it had ever been. They conversed about anything and everything, a bit more lucid than their last encounter, but not lacking in any type of conversational skills for it. Their values clearly different to the world’s around them. Crowley preferred gardening to political advising. Aziraphale would rather a good book or expertly trimmed coats to 

"And the French?” Crowley said suddenly, “_Do you speak any at all?" _At Aziraphale’s sudden aversion to eye contact, he smirked. "Aren’t you in trade? That’s why you were speaking with Ambassador Henri earlier, weren’t you? I'd have thought you'd be able to speak all the good trade ones, angel." 

Aziraphale frowned but understood it was meant to be in jest. "Well, if you must know, it's just been a while since I've had the need to practice it alright. I don't get much air time with the actual French merchants of the business I’m in. More on the side of internal house affairs, I'm afraid."

Well that was a dose of sobering reality. Crowley took it in stride.

"Well if you're ever in need of any _lessons_ in the language, say diplomatic or otherwise, I've been called an excellent teacher."

Aziraphale then had to laugh. He let out a great burst of laughter with a huge, beatific smile that utterly lit up the darkness. Crowley blinked at him. Definitely missing out on the joke, and he raised his eyebrow as such at Aziraphale.

"Y-You were a serpent yesterday. The first tempter in Eden," Aziraphale giggled. "First serpent, first _teacher_, I've got your number _now,_ Crowley. You're truly quite adorable, aren't you?" Crowley’s cleverness and meticulous attention to detail sung to him, and Aziraphale melted. Crowley tried to act cool and dashing in his all black ensembles, but under it all was someone who very much did care. 

Crowley took his lapels in hand, not ungently as he minded the pearls, but firmly as he backed Aziraphale up against a stone wall. Oh, this was bringing back some late night memories of last week, they both thought but didn’t voice. 

“I am _not_ adorable, angel,” Crowley playfully snarled into his face. “I am a captain of the navy, the first tempter, whatever you want to say, but I am _not _adorable.” His hips were flush against Aziraphale’s, trapping him to the wall, but Aziraphale wanted to be nowhere else. 

“I quite disagree, Crowley. Aziraphale said with heavy lidded eyes. There truly was no excuse for this type of behavior, both of them largely free of any alcohol tonight, but they didn’t care. Crowley ducked his head down to Aziraphale’s neck brush over his skin with his mouth, and Aziraphale sighed, “What’s to be done about that?” 

Crowley brought a hand up to tilt his head to the side for better access when someone cleared their throat loudly. 

Their heads snapped toward the voice. Gabriel. 

Aziraphale froze, and Crowley let go of his robes. No, no, no, he was not supposed to be putting more distance between them. 

“Aziraphale. A word if you don’t mind,” Gabriel said with a cheery smile. His silly merman costume looked atrocious, but Lord if it didn’t match Gabriel’s personality... He stood there without any shame, not averting his eyes for even a second of privacy, and Aziraphale wanted to scream. Gabriel was of course too professional to comment on Crowley and Aziraphale’s positioning, but there was distaste in his eyes. He’d certainly never approved of Aziraphale’s interests at work, let alone in company. 

Crowley said, “I’ll step away for a moment, an-,” cutting himself off before he could finish the pet name. He swallowed unsaid words and slunk away into the shadows, robbing Aziraphale of his warmth. Now Aziraphale was just foolishly alone against a stone wall, and he quickly straightened himself. 

“Yes, Gabriel. Good evening. How can I help you?”

Gabriel’s eyes trailed after Crowley, and Aziraphale’s stomach clenched. A casual finger pointed after him. “That yours? Looked interesting. A _pirate_, how quaint,” Gabriel drawled as he came closer. 

“Captain actually,” Aziraphale corrected stiffly. What _did _he want? “A nice costume for tonight, don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, yes,” Gabriel said distractedly. “I’ve been looking for you actually, Aziraphale. About the plan for the company. There’s been some changes.” Always to the point then.

Aziraphale felt cold settle into his bones, but it could’ve been the wall for all he knew. 

“Yes, the new clothing line. It’ll be spectacular,” Aziraphale said carefully. “And what changes would those be?” 

“Well, you see you’re doing phenomenal work where you are. In marketing and public relations, really fine work, Aziraphale. We weren’t able to secure you a full time position in the design department, after all, even though you’ve been helping them on the side. Just no room this quarter, what can I say?” Gabriel shrugged. His horrid little smile said everything. 

“Helping them on the side,” Aziraphale uttered lowly. “Helping them on the side? Gabriel, I have _designed _the new line from scratch. I _am _its designer, even from my position in marketing.” His head was beginning to swim. His hands balled into fists, trying to ground himself. 

“Yes, but that’s not the names on the labels, now is it? No one said you’d be credited for your work, _you_ took on that role for yourself. And the company appreciates you, we really do, but it’s out of my hands. Not a single spot open from the team, I’m sorry to report.” 

“I can’t believe this, I can’t even…” Aziraphale leaned against the stone wall completely now. So much of his own money, his time and energy… Spent for this line. His head was reeling. 

"Oh, c’mon, Aziraphale. You know how it is. Budgets, company politics. It’s all out of your hands anyway,” Gabriel chuckled. “And besides, it's not like you're actually-" 

"Actually _what_, Gabriel?" Aziraphale seethed through his clenched teeth. 

"I mean, that's to say, you're- you're..." Gabriel gestured at him loosely. 

He was stood before him and adorned in teal silk like world’s biggest twat. "I mean we _value_ your work around here, couldn't get it all done without you, but you're not exactly the go-to in terms of design. We handle that on our end, and you get to converse with the locals! It all works out perfectly without you trying to dip your fingers into other pies! You can see that right, Aziraphale?" 

Aziraphale shook his head. He was the sole creator of the entire line of shoewear that had gotten their entire clothing company _noticed_ before he was forced into marketing. And now, to imply he wasn’t even a _designer-_ He wasn't some useless, _has been_ in the world of fashion, and for Gabriel to- to- 

The sounds of rich laughter and the echo of music turned his stomach. The thought of facing his _associates_ from the company even more so. Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon were just pets in Gabriel’s pocket, and they would just hammer home everything Gabriel had thrown at him. It’s not like they’d ever designed something good in their entire _lives_, their costumes for these wedding balls alonewere as nauseating as Gabriel’s. 

Aziraphale simply turned and stormed away. He felt like his head was boiling, all the blood had risen to his face, and he was worried he was going to explode at whoever next crossed his path. 

But getting away from Gabriel couldn’t quell the rising lump in his throat. Aziraphale hated that he was soon red in the face and felt his eyes pricking with tears. He hastily sucked in a breath to tamper the rising urge to cry. Gabriel didn’t even call his name or apologize, of course. Aziraphale tore through the hedge maze, trying to put as much distance between himself and Gabriel as possible, away from the dancers and the sea and the rest of the ball. 

Aziraphale cursed as a sob left his throat. His work thrown back in his face, the lack of recognition, all of it was too much. He hurried through the hedges and caught his magnificently embroidered robes on a bramble. He pulled it free but gasped as it sent a strings of his pearls flying down the cut grass. 

Aziraphale felt his tears rise in full force as he saw the imported gems rolling away from him. He couldn't stand the sight of them laying fallen on the path, and he turned heel to run further into the maze. Pearls fell off him one by one, and Aziraphale sobbed even harder. The fat tears rolling down his face burned into his reddened cheeks and the shaky sobs wracking his chest made it hard to breathe as he lost himself deeper and deeper.

He finally collapsed at one of the benches circling a fountain, and he dabbed at his eyes with his ivory white handkerchief. His heavy breaths refused to calm until he put his head in his hands and stared at the ground. He cried over and over again into his handkerchief, sniffling and dabbing at his endlessly runny nose, trying not to scream into the scrap of fabric. Aziraphale finally came to when he realized that he had just ruined another feature of his costume. He stared at the snotted cloth and just felt all care leave his body.

The whole bloody oyster costume was already ruined, the handkerchief the least of it all. He felt the lump in his throat tremble knowing he must look so pathetic. His costume had bits of strings hanging off of it, once complete with rows of pearls, but now he just looked like shredded drapery. His handkerchief was clenched and stained in his fist, and his shoes were muddy from the trek; it was all too much. 

Gabriel and the company, his practically _stolen_ work... It really seemed like there was nothing left for him there, and Aziraphale wanted to cry anew. It’d been literal years of his life with them, under their thumb, underappreciated. 

He wanted to leave Italy as soon as he could. Leave all of it behind. Money would be no matter when he could cash in on all his investments he'd made at once, and he could finally, finally just disappear. Aziraphale wanted to laugh at his own hope, but it was too intriguing to dismiss. 

An undertaking such as this might not be the best move when he was so emotional, but he couldn't bear living underneath the company’s a second longer. No one would even notice his absence. A disappearance in the night would be easy. Beneficial to the company even. If Aziraphale couldn’t do what he loved, then what was left for him here? 

Aziraphale felt the sea wind stir through his hair, and it felt like a sign. He mulled over the possibilities to himself: taking his talents elsewhere, opening up his own shop, bringing his books with him… 

"Did you know pearls are called drops of moonlight?"

Aziraphale whipped towards that voice. 

"Oh, C-Crowley." Aziraphale bit his trembling lip, trying to push down his rising mortification. "I must look a state right now..." He gestured fruitlessly at his ruined clothes and tried to dab at his face with his handkerchief.

Crowley didn't say anything, just leaned against the fountain, and Aziraphale burned with humiliation_._ He felt on the verge of tears again, mind racing knowing he must've ruined everything. This was only their second meeting, the knowledge that it was only the second of three looming over their time together too, and he had gone and messed it all up with his crying and his horrid damage to his costume And Gabriel. And his insufferable smile and machinations. Crowley just looked stunning in navy captain’s garb, too carefree for the drudgery that Aziraphale inhabited, and it was all the more clear to Aziraphale as he was in literal shambles compared to Crowley. 

But Crowley approached the bench and swiftly dropped to one knee and took Aziraphale's hand in his own. Aziraphale's hand clutched at his handkerchief tightly, and before he could say anything, Crowley turned his palm upright and dropped something in it.

A pearl.

"You're brilliant. Best conversationalist I've met at this entire wedding."

"Cro- Crowley, I-"

Another pearl.

"Your fashion sense, while questionable in color, is leagues ahead, _years ahead_ of all of Europe."

Pearl after pearl, each fallen from his own costume, were stacked in his hand as Crowley calmly complimented him with each one.

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the tears from falling again, but he was smiling through it all. His heart felt so very close to the surface, and it trembled when Crowley caught his eye. Aziraphale kept wiping at his chapped face and lips, hitching a small laugh at Crowley’s, "You run like you've forgotten your glasses though, I swore you'd hit a few of those hedges and go straight through."

The last pearl, dozens of them by now, was added into the overflowing pile in his hands, and Crowley smiled up at him, "You're unlike anyone else here, angel. That's a _good_ thing.”

Aziraphale looked down at the pile of pearls in his hands. Hand picked pearls from the Gulf of America and India, and Crowley kneeling in the mud before him in his beautiful captain's costume, and made up his mind.

He dropped the pearls, aiming for his lap but not even caring where they ended up, and yanked Crowley up by his arms into a hug. They embraced in such an awkward fashion, Aziraphale sitting and Crowley half standing, that Aziraphale laughed. He laughed with mirth, with more than a few tears, and with utter sheer relief that Crowley were here.

Crowley, for his part, ran with it, and embraced Aziraphale just as tightly and stroked a hand through his hair.

When they eventually parted, due to the strain on Crowley's back, Crowley sat down next to him. They sat on the bench watching the candles in the fountain water move, framed by luscious green hedges, and talking about anything that wasn’t what made Aziraphale cry. Apparently Crowley had had a word in the hedges’ growth and care. Aziraphale loved his lace and his fine shoes. Both of them liked the scattered pearls. And it wasn’t strictly said but both of them silently understood that Crowley looked at Aziraphale like no one had ever before. 

Aziraphale’s shining eyes conveyed every word they both didn't want to voice, and Crowley sighed. His arm was slung round the bench chair, but he brought it down to Aziraphale’s waist and brought them closer together. In the darkness, illuminated only by the floating candles, they felt safe together. The warm night air surrounded them, and the sounds of the ball and other chatter were distant. Far off to their ears where they sat in the hedges. Their masks too were a double sense of security, and there was all the reason they could remain strangers tonight and hereafter. And yet... Crowley brought his other hand to Aziraphale’s cheek and wasted no time in bringing his mouth to Aziraphale’s.

Crowley kissed eagerly but softly, feeling every inch of skin underneath his own lips. They didn’t know each other, but they knew this. And this told them everything they could have ever known. 

The kiss tasted of Aziraphale’s tears, of salt: the raw element of life and the sea. It was appropriate how well designed these balls were, Crowley thought before he could think of nothing else. All he could feel was Aziraphale next to him, against his lips, the thought of him warming him up from the inside. Crowley was amazed at how much Aziraphale felt, and how much he made Crowley himself feel in turn. He sighed into the kiss and tried to convey with only his hands and mouth how much he never wanted to leave this country, this night, or Aziraphale.

They pulled back after only a few moments, but it was enough. Aziraphale still had that tender look in his eyes, and Crowley could only imagine what he looked like. Crowley took Aziraphale's hand in his own, easily, simply. 

They talked into the night, surrounded by drops of scattered moonlight.


	4. Chapter 2.5 - Interlude

The night held only music for Anathema and Newt. Their rowboat drifted silently through the water as they curled into each other, but they were floating past the orchestra and the music swept through them. They couldn’t dance here, but Newt’s arms were around Anathema just as they were at the last ball, and it was enough. 

Anathema leaned her back into Newt’s embrace, and they took in the beautiful night before them. The music rang sweetly in the air, echoing off the water in interesting ways, and the candles floating on the top of the water made a dynamic mosaic. The flames kept the night at bay, lighting up everything around them in a rich orange yellow glow, and the light set the water sparkling. 

It was a masquerade ball unlike any other. It outdid last week’s ball just in terms of sheer logistics as the other rowboats drifted past them, but hosting it at the water’s edge was the crowning achievement. The water theme had never before been debuted, but the crown could pay for anything. It wanted to banish the night for one evening, lighting the water with hope or some such nonsense for the upcoming nuptials. Only the best for the princess, of course, Anathema thought bitterly. 

She tried to clear her head. There was a reason she was out here tonight, actually enjoying the balls festivities, her last moments of freedom. Her trusted her ladies in waiting allowed her to move about her own wedding balls unattended and unwatched. There was something to be said for that at least, and Anathema tried not to regret it. The weeks were rushing by so fast, and the last thing she wanted to do was waste any of her time- 

“Anathema,” Newt began. Anathema, startled out of her reverie, looked her way.

“Anathema, look,” Newt said and pointed. And oh, there it was. An explosion of fireworks had just begun in the sky. 

“Talk about lighting the night,” Anathema murmured. Newt just chuckled and held her closer as they watched the show. It was going splendidly until Newt said above her, “I’ve got to ask… Are you some type of nobility or something, I should be aware about?” 

Anathema prided herself in that moment that she didn’t freeze up in her arms, but she did go quiet. “I said I was a professional descendant. Familial honor and duty and that sort of stuff…” she said, forcing herself to relax. She doesn’t know, of course she doesn’t know. There was no contact between them outside of the balls, no way Newt could have ever guessed. 

Newt just breathed a small sigh. “I know. But I was wondering for a bit more than that. Like…” 

Anathema turned to look at Newt. She didn’t know what Newt wanted her to say, but she wanted to find out. Newt huffed a breath through her nose. “Just hear me out, okay? What if you didn’t have to be a ‘professional descendant’. We didn’t have to be descendants of any type. If we didn’t want to be.” 

Anathema felt her eyebrows knit together. A million replies danced on her tongue, but the one reaction that spewed out was, “What are you talking about? I have no intention to abandon my family legacy.” 

Newt held up her hands placating, “No, no, I didn’t say abandon your family. I just wondered if that’s all there is to life. Just listening to your family and tradition and the things said before you were even born. Where’s the choice in that-” 

“Newt, I don’t need a lecture on what to do with my life. I’ve had it all written down for me since before I was born, and I am _fine _with that,” Anathema scooted out of Newt’s reach and sat down on the bench opposite her. How could Newt even _begin_ this, Anathema wondered. It was all going so well and- 

Newt said quickly, “Miss Device, I’m only saying- I was just considering-” 

“Newt, listen. My family has never led me astray so far, and I’ve even been the one to let _them _down by not listening to them. So I’m fine. Dances end, but family is forever, okay?” Anathema snapped and was about go on when- 

“Come away with me. Miss Device,” Newt murmured. She leaned so close, working to capture Anathema’s gaze, and took her hand. “I- I want to know you. Three dances isn’t enough for me.”

“Newt, you- you can’t be serious,” Anathema stuttered out. 

“How do you know this isn’t what your family wants for you, Miss Device? How do you know they didn’t want you ultimately happy if they planned everything out for you?” Newt said imploringly. She squeezed Anathema’s hands. “Think of yourself for once.”

“Newt, I- I have to,” Anathema searched vaguely for an explanation that could even come close. She wasn’t minor nobility, she wasn’t even distantly attached to the throne. She was its direct descendant, and nothing would ever change that. “Newt, I have to follow what’s been set before me. There’s no other way, really.” She never answered Newt’s question, but in her heart it was yes and only yes. The weight of Newt’s hands in hers was so tempting. 

“Do you want to be a descendant all your life?” Newt asked once more. It was the same sentiment as her first, come away with me, but completely different at the same time. Newt was asking her, “don’t you want your own life?” 

Anathema felt on the precipice of a great drop. Fireworks boomed over head, and the candlelights kept flickering. She squeezed Newt’s hand back and fell.

“I’ll run away with you.” 


	5. Chapter 3 -  De sphaera mundi

The princess looked radiant. Her enormous wedding gown sparkled as she and the royal family weaved their way through the crowd. The third and final ball assembly took place much closer to home than the second; they were practically in the castle’s backyard. And accordingly, the harvest ball took place in a large farm field that had already been cleared and ready for a massive gathering.

Enormous wooden boards and carpets had been laid down to walk on, and various tents and pavilions provided some protection against the elements. Tables laden with food sat inside these structures, and Aziraphale had already taken quite the sampling of them when the royal family finally approached. They sat at a table on a raised dais, raised a glass to the people, and the king spoke some kind words about the upcoming nuptials - thanks for the harvest and peace for the nation and the like. The princess serenely smiled and nodded her head in agreement, her half mask covering the rest of her face.

Her wedding gown itself, Aziraphale noted, was enormous. It had huge poofy sleeves and floral and butterfly motifs along its bodice, and some rather questionable flower embroidery round the back of the ruffled skirt... It was wholly eye-catching but made up of the disharmonious choices that Gabriel and co. were so fond of, Aziraphale sighed. Not to dwell on _them_ for any longer than needed he figured at least the princess looked happy. She and her family ate at the table, different servants flitting about and serving them.

It honestly all seemed rather more peaceful than Aziraphale initially thought it’d be. The only people who seemed at all stressed were the servants who’s harried faces were not to be messed with as they hurried through the crowd clutching flowers and vases and reams of fabric. Other than that, it seemed like the natural end to an almost month long celebration.

Crowley had called it an outdoors circus before Aziraphale had hushed him and sent him off to grab more drinks. Crowley’s rich outfit swayed away, he was decked in the rich bounty of the French empire, with a change in coloring than his normal black. He wore a merchant’s sumptuous red silk and other jewel tones, quite fetching to the eye really, and in lovely contrast to the warm browns and oranges Aziraphale himself wore. His costume also celebrated the richness of Italy, but he’d gone for a more muted tone in deference to the princess’s own grandeur: layers of colored fabrics, not unlike tiramisu. Aziraphale hadn’t quite the heart to tell Crowley yet that the dessert was what inspired him, but there’d be time enough for that. He turned to watch the royals once more, really to eye the princess’s wedding gown again, but the ball was flooded with even more guests and the family was lost in the crowd.

* * *

The ball was well underway now, dancers occupying the newly constructed floor and beating a fierce rhythm upon the boards. The other guests, easily hundreds in attendance at the final ball and witness to the wedding, were simply mingling about. This ball had a distinctly different feeling to it, not as indulgent as the first dance, not as dark as the second, but open and free. The music lifted into the air as quickly as it was played, and yes it was a large crowd but no one was constrained to fit inside the castle walls. There was more room here, outside.

Anathema had always breathed easier under the open sky, and this time was no different. The constricting gown she wore, with its ridiculous layers and beads and gloves, was a challenge but she’d only have to wear it for a few more hours… She sipped at her drink and managed to nibble on a few things, but her stomach wouldn’t still. She had too much nervous energy to expend, and she rapidly talked about the various theories and ideas she had with anyone who would listen at the table. It wasn’t much of an audience, as her ideas were rather occult based, but it kept her occupied while she waited for the plan to commence.

The sun sunk lower in the sky, chilling the air but producing a gorgeous sunset. It wasn’t long now, and Anathema laughed at something one of the diplomats had said.

“Another glass, princess?”

Anathema turned.

_Newt_.

She was right there, bottle of champagne outstretched and dressed in the castle servant’s uniform. Eyes glittering with mirth behind a simple mask and cheekily smiling at Anathema’s surprise. Anathema felt her jaw drop before she snapped it shut. Newt smiled to keep from laughing and she inclined her head subtly when Anathema hadn’t spoken in a long moment.

“I-I’m fine, thank you,” Anathema stuttered out. What are you doing here, Anathema screamed silently. She flicked her wide eyes to the rest of the table where her father and mother, _the king and queen_, sat close by.

Newt only smiled and gave Anathema an inscrutable look. She politely asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, princess?” arms folded evenly at her sides and looking all the world a normal servant.

Quickly now. Anathema assumed a more normal tone, Newt was just another server at the event.

“Actually, yes. I’d like a walk around the ball, if you and another server could hold my gown?” Anathema smiled winningly at Newt. She batted her eyelashes, done up in mascara and eyes painted with the latest cosmetics, and Newt’s face went slack. Anathema smirked at turning the tables on Newt’s confidence, and she replied, “Of course. One moment please,” just a second too late.

Wow, she’d really gotten to her it seemed, as Newt left to gather help with one last longing look. Anathema preened under the attention, feeling her heart flutter just a touch at seeing Newt’s reaction to her. Running away with her was going to be an adventure.

* * *

“You’d ever think of leaving Italy, Aziraphale?” Crowley suddenly asked. At Aziraphale’s look of surprise, Crowley grimaced and looked away. “I mean, I was just curious about how much of the world you’ve actually seen, and where your job’s taken you before. That’s all,” he winced. He led them in another complicated turn around the dance floor and steadfastly avoided Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale wanted to laugh, but he could sense this was something more. He squeezed Crowley’s hand where they were clasped together and said softly, “I have. Left Italy before. A few times, but just for trade and the company. Gabriel’s business you see.”

Crowley turned his head back towards Aziraphale, still faintly flushing, but he nodded solemnly in thought. The weight of Aziraphale’s job hung between them, heavy as they both thought of Gabriel and his treatment of Aziraphale. Crowley was still furious, but he kept that to himself. They danced a few more turns before Aziraphale carefully added, “I’ve actually just decided to go though. Just this past week.”

And oh, if hope dawning on Crowley’s face wasn’t the most beautiful sight in the world. His mouth falling agape and sputtering for words was too gorgeous of a sight to look directly at, and Aziraphale looked up at him through his eyelashes instead. Words seemed hard to come by in that moment as Crowley squeaked out, “Are you serious, angel? Say that you are.”

Aziraphale felt his heart bursting with everything as he confidently said yes. “I made up my mind. The world is a lot bigger than where I’ve been stuck. I hear France has nice fashions, and you know I love crepes…” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley’s eyes were swimming, dear Lord. He hacked a choked laugh, voice cracking out of happiness, and said, “I know of an excellent French teacher, by the by, angel. Truly wonderful, excellently skilled in tongues.”

Aziraphale gasped in mock surprise, lightly swatting Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley, you can’t say those types of things! Imagine if someone heard you!”

Crowley cackled, not as close to the verge of tears now, and just held Aziraphale tighter. “I’d imagine if someone heard me, they’d beg to hear more. Night after night, in English, _in French_, in every damned language I know,” he exclaimed, clutching Aziraphale tight to him and spinning him with a flourish. Aziraphale didn’t have a clue how to do it, this wasn’t a dance he’d even heard of before, but it gave Crowley an excuse to keep his hands close on him throughout the ball.

* * *

“Anathema, are you ready?” Newt said, hand outstretched towards her.

“Yes, just a moment.” Anathema had finished packing her bags, but she took one last look round her room. The vast chambers had housed her all her life, but she made them cozier with little accents over the years. Her colored pencil drawings of childhood, her warm pillows along the walls keeping the cold out. The piles of occult literature and readings she couldn’t take with her but had practically memorized by heart. She wasn’t attached to anything in here necessarily, but it’d still been a refuge for her.

She took Newt’s hand and leaned into her arms. Newt cradled her, and they took it all in together. The plan was really happening. The last week had been a frenzy of planning, secrecy, and sneaking around, but it had all been worth it to make this happen. Newt kissed the top of her head, and Anathema knew it was time to go.

Her wedding dress had been discarded as soon as they entered her rooms. Newt and another trusted servant, Theodore, had walked her round the ball, holding her gown and helping her move about, before Anathema feigned forgetting her vows for the wedding. Newt and the servant escorted her back to the castle, and after that it was easy to grab their disguises from their hiding places.

Theodore had changed first into a hired guard’s uniform and stood watch outside. Newt changed into an upper middle class woman's dress, complete with a fake wedding gift that just housed their escape money. Anathema garbed herself in another servant’s uniform and mask. A cap hid her voluminous, overly curled wedding updo, and it seemed like they were ready to go. The princess’s room remained untouched for the most part, and no one would notice anything important until later, with the remnants of a burnt wedding dress in the fireplace.

It wasn’t unusual for Theodore nor Anathema to carry some type of luggage for Newt’s persona. For all appearances, Newt was a rich woman leaving the festivities with her hired help. No one would suspect the luggage they carried being Princess Anathema’s own along with a farmer and servant’s belongings.

And for the overworked servants and guards, a party of three moving through the castle and disappearing into a carriage was nothing. Of all of them, Newt received the most attention for her lovely dress, but no one knew their eyes had just passed over the princess to be wed.

Anathema and Newt changed one last time in a hidden corner of the stables. A final outfit swap that would have thrown anyone tailing them off. Newt, back into her original clothes of a humble farmer, and Anathema into a fine dress.

“You ready? I’ll be right along, you just have to wait here for me,” Newt said as she held Anathema’s gaze. Anathema was perched right on the steps of the carriage, the last major step in their plan.

“That’s the worst part, Newt. I hate waiting,” Anathema complained, trying to sound unaffected. The concerned colored her voice though and she said, “Let me come with you?”

“No, no, I know this was your idea, but I have all the skills- er, lack of skills to make it happen. I swear it,” Newt smiled.

Anathema wanted to argue, but Theodore nodded from below. “Miss Device, Newt’s right. Her talents lie in this, but I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry.”

Anathema sighed, biting her lip, and she quickly pressed a kiss to Newt’s lips. “_Don’t _be late, or else I’ll come after you, got it?”

Newt kissed her back just as fiercely and nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” Newt helped Anathema into the carriage before turning to Theodore.

Theodore, stoic as ever, raised a brow. “You ready to fix some carriages, Newt?”

Newt grinned in affirmation. The whole stables and guards’ horse tack was a massive undertaking, but Newt had always been “good” with riding gear. She’d wanted to become a stablehand before she realized she broke every piece of tack she touched, including carriage fixings.

“We’ll bring traffic to a halt, Theodore.”

* * *

The world shook beneath their feet. The ball launched into the biggest uproar either of them had ever seen. One moment Crowley was handing Aziraphale another cake to try, kissing his mouth in between bites, and the next the deafening sounds of a rumour running through a crowd hit them like a wave. The guests burst into chatter, guards yelled orders, and the wooden boards were literally shaking from the flurry of activity.

“My dear boy, what is happening? Where is everyone going?” Aziraphale cried. He stepped much closer to Crowley to avoid several servants rushing past him, and his eyes tracked a number of guards stomping in the other direction. Crowley finished his flurried conversation with his fellow Frenchman and sent him on his way.

“I can’t fucking believe it. I- I think they just said the princess is missing? As in the princess to be married in 10 minutes?” Crowley scoffed. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand lest they lose each other in the crowd, and Crowley shook his head. “How can you lose that woman? She was wearing a dress as big as these tents, for someone’s sake!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Yes, I know that, Gabriel and the company’s work you see, but where could she have _gone_? I saw her just-” and Aziraphale paused.

The opening remarks had been hours ago. Just past lunchtime the ball had begun, the royals had filed in, and… the last time he’d seen the princess. Her tent-wide dress nowhere to be seen since save for a few snatches here and there in the crowd. But past that, Aziraphale realized she’d been gone. “Oh no, oh no, this is quite bad,” he murmured to himself.

Crowley stopped his fervent listening for gossip and turned at Aziraphale’s tone. “Wait, what’s wrong? Why is this bad?” Other than a diplomatic nightmare he’d have to advise the King on, Crowley was fine. That’s when he _reached _France again, and who knows how long it’d take him to make his way back there. “Aziraphale, tell me,” Crowley urged.

Aziraphale had a thoughtful expression on his face, and he said more to himself, “Well, we- the company and I- were the main providers of Princess Anathema’s fashions, so I do believe I’m out a job now.”

Crowley burst into a crow of laughter as he embraced Aziraphale to him. Aziraphale didn’t know why and his shock showed, but Crowley’s arms around him were always welcome. “Crowley? Now what’s wrong with you?”

The crowd close to stampeding around them, the sound of a thousand voices overtaking the scene, and underneath the setting sun, Crowley just shook his head. Their world of politics and weddings and orders was falling apart around them, but Crowley didn’t care. He smiled widely, his voice only for Aziraphale’s ear as he laughed, “Nothing, nothing at all, angel.”


	6. Chapter 4 - Epilogue

All people could talk about was news of the biggest carriage assault in Italy’s history. And a princess’s disappearance. But the carriage disabling was apparently the most noteworthy as no one had seen a score of them taken out in one night. Theories ranged from whole group of bandits cutting horse reins, destroying tack, and breaking carriages. Obviously in connection with the princess’s disappearance, so no one could follow the whole group of royal kidnappers.

Newt and Anathema giggled to themselves over the latest bits of gossip in their new cottage kitchen in England. The countryside was remarkably agreeable to both of them, and they sat in their kitchen revisiting their favorite parts of gossip. They’d left the country as fast as they could, and Newt’s skills completely worked. No one had been able to follow the last carriage out of the castle, and by then Theodore and the two of them had already ditched it for a new one.

It took a miracle to work, but apparently luck was on their side. Theodore had gone his separate way, but he was free too. They weren’t descendants anymore. And as Anathema cradled a mug of tea to herself in the wonderful sunlight of her new home, she couldn’t have been happier to have been found by Newt on the first ball of her wedding.

* * *

There were few things that could prompt Crowley to get out of bed. Sightseeing in Paris was not one of them, not after having explored every inch of the city for years. But it just so happened Crowley had a whole new assemblage of reasons to get up and out of bed that only tangentially related to sightseeing.

Aziraphale’s face trying_ tartelettes amandine _for the first time. Drinking coffee with delicate pastries in the shops. Touring the water arm in arm, at all hours of the day. The entire time, Crowley rather neglecting his job and Aziraphale rather neglecting to gain one, but it was enough for now. Their new experiences together naturally took precedence over such things.

Though in the several years since they’d left Italy, there was not a sight more dear to Crowley’s heart than when he saw Aziraphale’s face unmasked. The night the princess disappeared, when one world stopped and their new one started together, Aziraphale bared his face to him and slipped off Crowley’s own mask. They were never hidden from each other again.

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe it's done! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone again, and PLEASE check out the rest of the works in the collection. All the writers and artists are fabulous and have put so much effort into their creations. And again, don't forget to check out and follow Kharpy's social media! <3  
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